


The Other Side of Passion

by 13ee



Series: Resurrecting Sofia Boutella's Characters One Femslash Fic at a Time [1]
Category: The Mummy (2017)
Genre: Ahmanet Succeeds, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Jenny is Gay and Extra (tm), Kissing, Knifeplay, Nipple Play, Off-screen Character Death, Resurrecting Sofia Boutella's Characters One Femslash Fic at a Time, Sensuality, Strangely Sensual Ritual Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-15 22:29:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11815470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13ee/pseuds/13ee
Summary: Canon-divergent AU where Jenny is Ahmanet's chosen and is very, very into it.





	The Other Side of Passion

You tell people it's you life's work, and that's true, but it's more than that. People hear "passion" but forget "sacrifice," forget love. It's not just you life's work–it's you life. When you love something that much, with that much ferocity and strength, everything else blurs. Morality is liquid, malleable, incorporeal. What you have is solid, heavy, unshakable. 

 

You rage at his desecration of the grave site evaporates into awe as you gaze into the stone face. Your heart is pounding. Your stomach swoops. It's the most beautiful thing you have ever seen. Silver liquid runs down its surface, falling from its eyes like tear drops. You wonder if this is what falling in love feels like. It’s not. Falling in love feels like standing on dunes as a beautiful, ancient, woman speaks to you in a language that caresses you like a lover, a language more precious, more natural than your own tongue. Falling in love feels like a hand on your face and the words "my chosen" breathed against your lips. 

The soldier snaps his fingers in front of your face and you're back in the cave. You’re angry at his interruption but force yourself to put it aside, she is there, in front of you, and you need her so much. And she needs you. She needs you to get her out of there. So you do. 

 

In the plane, writing up your first observations, carefully editing out the rapture and desperately trying to sound objective (you sound pretty smitten regardless of your efforts), you pause to wonder if this is a good idea. It's possible the mercury has gotten to you. It's possible curses are real. It's possible you are hallucinating. It's possible this is an incredibly bad idea and there is a very good reason for this person to be buried far from Egypt, submerged in Mercury. You try to be objective. You know there is something undefinable about her and the way she makes you feel, so full of longing, desperate with it. But you have been a scientist for a long long time, so you try. You step back. But she spoke to you in ancient Egyptian. You saw ancient Egypt, even if for only a moment. She has knowledge you could never dream of. She lived it. She is the only person who knows what it's like, the only person who can tell you. And it's your life. Your passion. And passion means sacrifice. You think you would be happy to lose your mind for her. You breathe deep, casting your eyes across her. The longing builds again. You return to your notes, your mind made up.

The other thief, the one you didn't fuck, has changed. When you see him standing next to her with a knife, you fill with rage. But then you see her again, only a flash, a tease. You settle. This is her. He is her, her plan, her plaything. You relax and watch him kill his commanding officer. You haven't seen anyone be murdered before. It bothers you. But not as much as it should. She knows what she is doing, knows better than you what is necessary. The plane goes down and you cling to her, terrified. 

 

You should have died. You're pretty sure everyone else did, though you see no bodies around you. As you wake you see flashes of her. You burn with jealousy when you see her perched above the man, go cold with rage when she is harmed. It's only when you return to yourself, cold and filthy, surrounded by wreckage, that you realize you recognize the knife. You know her. You've loved her for years before this. Your passion, your life. You scramble to your feet, barely registering that you are impossibly unharmed, not even a scratch. You run your hands carefully over your body. She loves you. You smile briefly before stumbling forward, eyes searching frantically. You find her, following crows and instinct. She has been thrown from her casing, the box around her's lid is cracked open. You pry it free and freeze. She is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen. You fall upon her and clutch her withered body to your chest, sobbing. Then you hear voices, then you feel fear. You hold her to you. You see lights, they draw near you. You shake. A person comes into view wearing the uniform of a British police officer. They bend close, peering at you, they speak but you can not hear. They move closer, light shining over your body and terrified face. Then they notice her. They get closer, you want to snarl, you won't let them have her, won't let them hurt her. You needn't have worried, a skeletal hand shoots out and the police officer goes down hard. She closes her lips over theirs and you hear a sucking noise like a vacuum cleaner. As they shrink, skin becoming dry and rotten, you feel her shift in your arms, feel her body start to change as slowly parts of her body grow full and healthy. She drops the body and you gaze at her in awe. Her arms flex with lean muscle,and though her face is unchanged you can’t help but think it beautiful. Finally you move your mouth. 

"More?" 

You don't need an answer. You cry out for help and hear the other officer radio in for emergency help. They run over and you pull them close as if in fear. She moves so quickly. Again her body changes, but she is still weak, her flesh tight to her bones in some places. You hold her as you wait. You hold her as the emergency personnel arrive. Hold her as she sucks the life from them over and over again. It's the most beautiful thing you have ever seen. She fills in your arms, heals. Her form is muscular, her skin grey and covered in small black lettering. She turns to you and her eyes meet yours. They are indescribable. She lifts a hand to your face, cold and still covered in scraps of her shroud. It feels different from the hand that first touched you as you stood on the hot dunes. You shiver, but not from her cool touch. She brushes a blue tipped thumb over your parted lips. The nail is cracked and she is filthy. You lean into the touch. You have never felt pleasure like this. She turns from you and you are bereft. She speaks to the bodies.

ترتفع  
Rise

And they do. As do you. As does she. The bodies lurch away but she pauses. Takes you in her arms. You melt against her cold, hard flesh. She cradles you. Lays a tender kiss upon your gasping lips. You can't breathe. She wraps an arm around your waist and tugs you forward. She is unsteady on her feet and leans into you. The press of her body against yours is heavenly, though she is anything but. 

 

Outside you find more people. She feeds again and again, drawing strength. She leads you to a nearby church. It is old and you immediately start gathering and mentally cataloguing data, trying to analyze and date. Your brain halts sharply as she lifts you into cool stone, lays you down. Your chest heaves. Your breath stops completely when she climbs onto you, straddling your hips and running her cool hands over your face, down your body. You gasp as your shirt and bra are pushed up to your collarbones and her chipped nails dance across your bared flesh. One catches on your nipple, already peaked from the cold air and your arousal, and you arch off the cool stone beneath you, into her hands. She pushes you back down, then leans closer. You feel her scrape a long nail against your nipple again and you don't even try to fight the whimper the emerges from your throat. You throw your head back against the stone, your eyes turned to the vaulted ceiling. She leans over you, both hands braced against your chest, pressing down on your breasts in a way that should be uncomfortable. She kisses you again and then lifts one arm up, reaching behind your head. You gasp in pain as her full weight falls on your right breast. You hear pottery smashing behind you. She pulls back from you, settling her weight on your hips. Your body hums in satisfaction. You know this. The man you saw is gone, replaced by you. You feel smug. In her hand she holds a curved knife, the knife, you realize. Your pulse quickens such that you can feel it in every part of your body. She raises it high and you notice only a second before she does. The stone–It's gone. The knife hovers mere centimeters from your breastbone and she lets out a vicious snarl. You runs your hands up and down her thighs, hoping to reassure her. She gazes down at you and smiles tenderly. You stare into her eyes with pure adoration. She leans over you again, a predatory smile on her lips. She runs the knife down your chest. A thin line of red follows its progress, though she draws no blood. You can feel your pulse throbbing between your legs, her weight across your hips impossibly good but far from enough. You feel her lips on your throat as she continues to drag the knife gently across your torso, tracing your ribs beneath your skin. She catches your mouth in another kiss. Her cold wet tongue should feel disgusting. It's doesn't. You moan. As she starts to draw away you press a hand to her cheek, drawing her near. 

الحجر أعتقد أنني قد أعرف أين هو  
The stone. I think I may know where it is. 

You whisper. You almost regret doing so as she pulls away and swings her body off of yours. But then she lifts you down. Her cold tattooed arms are strong around your waist. 

 

She doesn't want to let you out of her sight. You don't want to either. But you can hardly stroll in there with her in tow. She yanks you to her chest and kisses you, hard and brutal, before you leave. It takes you ten minutes to get your breath back. 

You report the loss. You act devastated. It doesn't take much acting. You feel bereft without her and anxious to return. They find the stone. You’re there when it happens. For a moment you are out on the dunes again, her smile soft and loving. You need the stone. You don't know how to get it. Shockingly, they just give it to you. Of course, you're meant to take it back to Jekyll. Trust is funny. You slip it out of the case and wedge it in your bra. It's uncomfortable but somehow feels good there all the same. You pass the case off to another researcher with some excuse you barely remember. 

You’re halfway to her when you hear them behind you. You run. Then you hear the shuffling steps of the bodies of her victims. You keep running. Then you hear screams. She runs to you and you rush into her arms. She holds your face in her hands, eyes searching, then cradles your head to her chest. You lift your head and take her hand and press it to your chest. Watch her eyes go wide as she feels the hard lump of the stone tucked against your breast. She looks at you hungrily. You shiver and press your body so close to her's you can feel the way her breath speeds up as you wrap your other arm tight around her waist. She kisses you again, slow and passionate. It feels like a benediction. You cling to her. After a moment she moves back; you whine softly and she smiles indulgently at you. You watch as she fits the stone into the dagger's hilt and it glows. 

تعال، اخترت  
Come, my chosen.

She murmurs and takes your hand. You follow. You love her. God, do you love her. You want to learn all her secrets. You want to learn all of her. She leads you away from your hiding place and you try to tell her about your pursuers, but she holds a finger to her lips and you quiet. You walk in a trance. London is full of old, cold stone and it isn't long before you find yourself once more lifted onto some stone surface, a crypt, an alter, you don't know, for once you don't care either. All that matters is her. Her eyes, split and multiplied, fixed on yours as she gently lays you down and crawls on top of you. You see the knife, curved and sharp and brutal looking and briefly wonder how much this is going to hurt. But sacrifice is part of passion, and you have always been passionate. It would be enough just to see that look of adoration in her eyes as she gazes down at you. Enough to feel her hands on your body. Again she pushes up your shirt and bra, this time removing them fully before running reverent hands over your torso. You can feel the cool hilt of the knife and the heat of the stone brush over your skin when she sweeps the hand holding it up your body. Just like before, just like the memory, you rest your hands on her cold grey thighs. You bare your throat to her. She kisses you again and sits back. The look in her eyes as she brings the knife high above her head, clasped tightly in both her hands, is breathtaking, though not more so than the pain of the knife being plunged into your chest. It hurts like nothing you could have ever imagined. You feel your sternum break, and howl. She holds the knife handle tightly, still pressing it deep into your chest. Her gaze is reverent even as you thrash and scream. Then the pain fades, and with it everything else. 

 

You’re not sure whether you expected to wake up. You don't feel like the human vessel of the god of death. You start to wonder if it was a dream. Then you start to cry. Then you register the cool body at your back, curled around you. A cold, blue tipped hand is resting on your sternum where the same hand had stabbed you. You grasp the hand, confused. Behind you, she wakes. She laces your fingers together and starts to lay tender kisses on your neck. You shiver. You want to relax into it, into her, but you can't. Did it not work? Was the dagger broken? If it was, shouldn't you have died? Your mind whirls. You turn to her and she makes a soft, displeased sound when you interrupt her kissing.

هل فعلت ذلك؟  
Did it- did it not work?

You ask hesitantly. She smiles, and retracts her hand from yours so she can gather you close to her chest. She brings her hand up, swiping a thumb under your eye, tender and loving. There is such adoration in her strange eyes that you lose your breath. 

سوف تعيش الآن إلى الأبد معي، اخترت. كنت لي وأنا لك وحتى الآلهة لا يمكن المسيل للدموع لنا بصرف النظر. يتم تعيين لك، اخترت، وكنت اخترت. وأنت لي. 

You will now live forever with me, my chosen. You are mine and I am yours and even the gods can't tear us apart. You are Set, my chosen, and you are my chosen. And you are mine.

She murmurs against your lips, eyes alight with happiness, smile just the slightest bit smug. You let out a breathy,

لي. نعم، لك  
Yes, yours.

Her smile turns wicked and your pulse thunders as she flips you on your back and looms over you. As she bends down to kiss you again, eyes adoring and smile vicious, you think of passion and sacrifice and love. Yes, some things are worth dying for, and she is certainly one of them.

**Author's Note:**

> Since google translate doesn’t have an ancient Egyptian option, all of the non-english text is Arabic, since that is what is primarily spoken in modern Egypt. It is all from google translate so I apologize for the quality. I have always wanted to learn Arabic, but haven’t been able to yet. If anyone has any corrections, please let me know.
> 
> I just wanted to clarify some stuff since the touching in the actual movie is pretty non-consensual. What is going on here is completely consensual, but it isn’t explicitly communicated which isn’t really okay in real life, but this is a fic about a pansexual mummy and a very sensual ritual sacrifice so things are a little different. In real life though always explicitly communicate consent and remember that consent needs to be constantly reestablished for each act and instance and can be revoked at anytime. Check in with your partner and use protection. Also, fun fact, I thought about putting in a sex scene but then remembered what Ahmanet’s nails looked like and decided against it.
> 
> Also, just a note. What the Jenny and the super creepy army dudes are doing is straight up grave robbing. It’s really disgusting and not okay. They are going to other people’s countries and stealing their dead and their relics and artifacts and that is so unbelievably not cool. Just so we are clear, I do not approve of it at all, and probably shouldn’t have given my money to a film that promotes it. I was weak and really really gay for Sofia Boutella.
> 
> Also! Thanks to my best friend Kai for all the editing help and general encouragement!!!
> 
> Thanks for reading and have a lovely day!


End file.
